


The Worthwhile Fight

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Bisexual John Watson, Friends to Lovers, LGBTQ Themes, Multi, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Pining, can you tell I'm asexual?, inc negative attitudes towards asexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4860398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Speedy's Cafe is renowned for having great pastries, lovely employees, and being a hot spot for everything LGBT+. It's here that Sherlock Holmes, fresh on the detective scene, deals with his ex issues, being ace, and his adorable flatmate.</p><p>(au where they're all kinda happy and friends bc I'm desperate, and there isn't anyone that's straight and/or cis)</p><p>(This fic is 100% abandoned!!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm 3/4 done w this fic but I'm starting posting this now to motivate me to write; updates will get iffy after a bit, but unfortunately sixth form takes priority :( 
> 
> So, I should probably say: 
> 
> Sherlock's attitude towards being asexual is actually based on my own (being ace panro myself), but every ace person is obviously different. 
> 
> And I use the word (well, a character does) 'queer' in this chapter and I'm sorry if anyone is uncomfortable w that. It wasn't my intention.
> 
> (Also no wtf the title wasn't shamelessly stolen from a Taylor Swift song what are you on about??)

'No.'

Sherlock scarcely allowed himself to sleep, but as he lay half awake with the force of nature that was Irene bloody Adler straddling his waist, he had never wanted to be unconscious and unresponsive more in his entire life.

' _Sherlock_ ,' the woman whined, poking at his sleep softened cheek in petulant irritation. 'It'll be fun.'

'Absolutely not, Irene.'

Irene's scowl deepened, her venomous red lips contorting into an almost snarl; Sherlock had come to expect this melodramatic behaviour from his mischievous acquaintance, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Only he could get away with this kind of behaviour, and only with John. And Mrs Hudson, on a good day.

'Why?'

'For a start, it's yet another of Mrs Hudson's half-baked plans, and she was probably much more than half baked when she dreamt it up. Need I go on?'

'Sherlock Holmes,' a falsely mocking tone chastised him as Irene shook her head. 'Where is your _pride_?'

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had never had much pride. With a few curious Google searches, he had promptly calculated what labels best fitted his sexuality and romantic interests at the age of thirteen, had explored them a little more by the age of eighteen, and now, at twenty two, he could think of nothing more boring.

He never looked at people and thought 'I really want to have sex with you'- asexual, then - and he was, upon occasion, vaguely interested in the same gender- homoromantic, obviously. It was incredibly irritating, that he could just fit himself neatly into two boxes like that, this thing that apparently kept the world turning. That people were sloppily murdered over; honesty, if homophobes could just get a little more creative with their methods Sherlock would almost, almost, forgive the motive behind their idiocy.

But Sherlock had packed up the nature of his heart and stuck it somewhere in the left wing, with memories of Redbeard and Mycroft's fifteenth birthday. Asexuality, however, could be wielded like armour, a comfortingly rigid brick wall between him and the dreaded fatal sentiment; what with the human race's tendency to get sex mixed up with every single kind of emotion, it was more than easy to pray on their ignorance and play the roll of the Vulcan, or the Cyberman, or something else from one of those brain rotting sci-fis he'd been forced to watch by his flatmate. A better man might have been angry at the stigma. They might have waved a flag, or gone on a march, or wrote a bitter blog post about it. Sherlock was just relieved.

 

* * *

 

'John!'

The final act of the desperate and/or dying: shout for the help of one John Watson. Irene had taken it upon herself to make Sherlock's life, or his morning, if you prefer facts over hyperbole, a total misery; the woman was relentless and a true force to be reckoned with.

'You're up early for someone who's not slept in three days.'

'Tell her she's being ridiculous!'

Sherlock had broken free from Irene's unfairly strong grip just seconds prior to his pleas, so he tore his way down the hall and into the cluttered kitchen come unofficial lab. John was faced away from him, swaying slightly as he clinked together mugs and spoons and one temperamental kettle. Too many experiments were bad for kitchen appliances, apparently.

'Who's being ridiculous?' He peered over his shoulder with a tired frown. 'Oh, God. Seriously, Irene, where do you actually live? Because I'm beginning to think you just squat in our flat.'

Irene slid up next to Sherlock, a dainty arm slipping around his waist with blood red nails twisting into the soft cotton of his old pyjama top. Her face was lit up with mischief.

'Wouldn't you like to know. So, Johnnny boy, you up for a party?'

'Well not right now. I've got 'that doctor stuff' soon and I think six am is a bit early to be getting drunk. I actually don't tend to start my day with a liquid breakfast.' John made air quotes around the exceedingly accurate 'doctor stuff' phrase; Sherlock just knew that John's medical textbooks were incredibly useful with cases, and also surprisingly flammable. He hadn't bothered to keep track on much more of John's student escapades or chores.

'Then you're living life all wrong! Isn't he, Sherlock?'

'In your bonkers little world, perhaps,' Sherlock huffed. 'Could you let go of me?'

'No! We'd make a cute couple.'

'Yes, well, it's unfortunate that we're both gay then, isn't it?'

'Oh, speaking of!' Irene continued her prattling, turning both her and Sherlock around to trail after John on his morning rituals. They all shuffled their way into the bohemian (messy) living room; John slumped down into his armchair, with Irene claiming Sherlock's and pulling her lanky friend down with her so that he had no choice but to remain trapped on her lap.

'This party, which your boyfriend -'

'John is not my boyfriend, Irene,' Sherlock corrected, trying not to sound too put out and pouty about it.

'Don't be stupid, Sherlock. Anyway, your /friend/ is too grumpy to want to go, but Mrs H is holding this fundraising night at UMQRA -'

'The gay bar?'

'Good God, yes! Will you two stop interrupting me? As I was saying, it's for Speedy's. Hudders wants to renovate it or something. I think she thinks she has to keep it stylish or the queer community'll up and leave.'

John peered over his mug, his pale eye lashing batting against the steam. His interest had been regrettably piqued. Now Sherlock would never get out of it.

'When is it?'

'Saturday night. But here's the thing: I might have offered our help with the set up and whatnot.'

Sherlock watched his friend's eagerness visibly diminish. It wasn't that John was a stranger to hard work, and he was, in actual fact, a total sucker for charity work, which were a combination of qualities that lent themselves perfectly to doctoring. He was a medical student, after all, and therefore wasn't afraid of proactivity. Working with the wicked combination that was Adler and Hudson, however, probably made being a trainee doctor look easy. Not that Sherlock thought being a doctor could be that hard.

'Dammit, Irene!'

Huffing softly in smug victory, Sherlock went to rise off Irene's lap.

'I told you he wouldn't want to get involved.'

'Oh, tough shit. you want to piss off your landlady? Go ahead. But everyone else is in on it and you two really need to get out.'

'We're going to have to do it, aren't we?' John's tone had taken on an almost comically depressive tone. 'If we don't help her, Mrs H'll raise our rent or something. _God fucking dammit_ , Irene.'

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John has been flatmates for six months; John was on placement at St Barts, and had needed somewhere to live that made for a shorter, and therefore cheaper, daily commute. It had started well, incredibly well even. John was irreplaceable on a case, what with his medical knowledge and superior social skills. He'd also required both a British Army Browning L9A1 and damn right beautiful aim from his war veteran father. So although Sherlock didn't dabble in the murky waters of human relationships often, finding that he got bitten more than he ever caught someone of any worth, John Watson had him hooked.

John and Sherlock had been flatmates for six months. They'd known each other for six, and been best friends for four of those. But Sherlock had only known he'd been in love with said friend for three. Three months was not a lot time, but then again the feelings had probably started before; Sherlock Holmes knew everything, saw everything, and he always had the last word, but he was a self confessed emotional imbecile with the self awareness of a two year old.

When he lay in bed at night, soft sheets offering little comfort, he would recall the first time it had dawned on him. It hadn't been as obvious as it may have been for some. It lacked the 'oh no I'm having sexual thoughts about my flatmate' epiphany, although Sherlock could see that John was attractive and hadn't just been able to earn himself his 'Three Continents Watson' nickname for nothing.

On the morning he'd realised it, John had been as attractive as ever. Ruffled from sleep, he'd been padding about the kitchen in old rugby socks and a tattered, acid stained teeshirt that he'd got an a concert of some band that Sherlock typically only knew because John liked them. Like every morning, he hadn't bothered with trousers yet, and his state of undress showcased his thick legs, which were muscular from years of amateur sport. Come to think of it, it wasn't exactly platonic of him to find the dreary five am version of his best friend quite so endearing and, God forbid, /cute/. Especially when he was caught up in the throws of his (their) first genuinely interesting case in what felt like years. Between murderous wedding photographers, hysterical Internet forums (as if the great and mighty world of the web was ever anything other than irrational and frenzied), and a bunch so called 'ghost stories', Sherlock should have been so deeply submerged in The Work that John should have been nothing more than a distant buzzing.

But he hadn't been. Well, he had, because if there was anyone on this planet who was capable of completely ignoring anyone, for any any amount of time, in any circumstance, it was William Sherlock Scott Holmes. And yet having John around wasn't like trying to pretend a mosquito bite doesn't sting, or that you didn't need to go to the loo on a heinously long car journey. It was like listening to your favourite song over and over to the point you stop registering the actual content and the music becomes a familiar, soothing hum.

Sherlock hadn't meant to start thinking about this as he lay sprawled on the sofa, fingers delicately steepled under his chin, as always. He'd thrown himself down in order to run over the case one last time in the quiet of his own mind, before John started questioning it with stupid 'what ifs' and 'but maybes', and yet ten minutes in he found himself trying to solve the puzzle that was John Watson. Again. The 'music vs insect bite' eureka moment had ended up snow balling, of course, and then John was his main focus, and not in a bad way, but not in a good way either...

He wasn't comfortable with people. Previously, Sherlock could have counted the number of people he could spend more than an hour with on a closed fist. But with John, it would be okay. With John, he could put on a brave face, and he could just watch his best friend when they got dragged to these LGBT fundraisers Irene loved; he wasn't sure when being gay had started to mean he was obliged go out every single bloody night. He had a feeling it collated with when he'd accidentally befriended a lesbian BDSM practitioner and gay rights activist in university. Regardless, he'd always hated it, but now? Not so much. Not when he could hopelessly cling on to John, when he had someone who would make excuses for his outlandish behaviour, when they could sit in corners and laugh at Sherlock's deductions.

Who knows how it moved over from 'I enjoy your company' to 'I'd quite like to spend every single day with you, until one of us dies or we both die together doing something stupid'? Sherlock just knew that, at that moment, with John making tea and babbling at him about weddings that he'd been to when he was a child, that that point had been and gone. And, as much as Sherlock struggled to understand his emotions, especially when they were at their most basic, he knew. Sherlock was in love with John. Not really a crush, he didn't really 'fancy' him in a primary school playground kind of way. It was love, and it was unpleasant, and after last time he was just going to bury it until it went away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fundraiser kicks off, Sherlock has the worst luck, and Lestrade should stick to his day job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really haven't checked this chapter and it's been sat around since summer. I've also been incredibly busy with essays and other school things, so I'm sorry - I actually have an English one I should be finishing right now. And I'm also sorry if I've butchered any of the trans/non binary characters here my only points of reference are tumblr and Google. Whoops.

_ Buzzfeed LGBT _

**_BRITAIN'S COSIEST CAFE WILL WARM YOUR GAY HEART_ **

_K. Riley, London_

_London’s iconic Baker Street, home to tourist attractions galore, sees millions of victors on a daily basis; it’s an energetic hive of activity and diversity. So it is fitting that, a little way down the road from sights such as Madame Tussaud’s, sits Speedy’s Cafe. On its own, Speedy’s is a perfectly charming little coffee shop, with an adorable quintessentially British vibe; the coffee is good, the tea is better, and the sweets are too irresistible for a girl on a diet such as myself._

_However, when you look a little closer, you’ll find something a little different about this cafe.  
Speedy’s, although open to all, is the epicentre of a localised gay rights wave. Newspaper clippings litter the walls, all documenting the activist antics of the motherly owner, Martha Hudson, and her patrons. These clippings are joined by posters for same sex speed dating, hotlines, support groups, and various rainbow tinted photographs._

_‘I just wanted to make a safe haven,’ says Mr Hudson, as I quiz her whilst she bustles about her shop; it’s just about opening time, but she says nobody really comes in until about seven in the morning. 'It’s so hard, when the only spaces are clubs and bars. What about the teenagers? And I don’t imagine everybody wants to go to nightclubs, especially people my age. I personally love a good party, but, well, I’ve got a hip now.’_

_Hudson and co have been incredibly successful, but not only in generating their own funds. Regulars have managed to fundraise thousands for LGBT charities over the few years the cafe has been open, but now they are asking for your help. A fundraising night to aid the further growth of this fantastic sanctuary is being hosted on the 20th August, and everybody is invited, regardless of sexuality or gender. The night will take place at local gay bar UMQRA, where there will be a £10 entry fee before you can enjoy as much free booze, fantastic live music, and flirting as you like. I can assure you the Buzzfeed team will be dropping by!_

_For further information, visit Speedy’s website: www.speedyscafe.co.uk  
Or follow them on Twitter: @Speedyscafe_

 

* * *

 

UMQRA had 2 main doors, five fire exits, and seven windows that opened wide enough to fit a six foot one detective through. If things got really dire, there was also a balcony Sherlock could easily jump off; worse case scenario, he’d choose the jump and have to be pushed around in a wheelchair and hand fed by nurses (or John) for the rest of his days. No, that wasn’t true. Worse case scenario, he got stuck with a bunch of insipid, sexually frustrated party goers, and then _Victor bloody Trevor_ would be there - in the same room as _John_. That was easily ten times worse than breaking one’s back, and that wasn’t him being over dramatic. At all.

'So I’m just serving drinks?’

'No, Greg, you’re our stripper too. Jesus. And to think you’re supposed to keep us safe for a living.’

'Oh fuck off, Irene. I was just checking.

'You’re missing out on some wicked drinks here, mate,’ John said, a wistful tone in his voice. He was eyeing up a bottle of some nasty looking flavoured vodka. Sherlock didn’t want to know. 'Shame you’ll be serving and not drinking.’

'I can’t drink much on T, anyway.’ Lestrade looked a little forlorn, but his greying features light up like the Blackpool Illuminations when Molly, his almost sickeningly sweet fiancé scurried in carrying a box of flyers.

Although you’d have to waterboard the truth out of him, Sherlock almost liked Lestrade, and Molly too. The now detective inspector had worked at Speedy’s for a while, back when he was still training; he’d taken the late shifts and early shifts and all the shifts nobody else had wanted in order to stockpile money for his transition surgery. And, when you worked bizarre hours next door to Sherlock Holmes, you didn’t have a chance in hell of avoiding him. Therefore, years on, Greg and Sherlock were dangerously close to being _friends_.

'Who let my fiancé behind the bar? He can’t even make a cappuccino.’

'Does your _fiancé_ have a name, or are you just going to call him 'fiancé’? Because it’s getting tedious. At least, when you do finally marry, 'husband’ will be a nice change.’ Sherlock had been meaning to sit in a darkened corner and sulk silently, but there was no point if nobody was going to pay attention to him.

'Sherlock, you don’t even know his real name half of the time,’ Molly returned; this kind of attitude from her was a little new, but in a refreshing way.

As with Irene, Molly and Sherlock had met at uni, and in the same way he had begrudgingly bonded with Adler over their shared attraction to the same gender, Molly was demisexual, which had led to the two of them drifting together amidst the standard irritation and vague sense of confusion most of Irene’s beloved sex talks had caused. And Molly had been around with Victor, so there was that, too.

'Here, Sherlock, now you’ve decided to join us on planet Earth, you can come and help Sally and I carry the boxes of decorations,’ John offered, although it obviously wasn’t optional. Sherlock scoffed, but he still followed after his friend as he trotted down the dimly lit stairs and onto the bustling city street. With any luck, Sherlock hadn’t looked too pathetic or weak-kneed. Irene’s lack of sarky resort was a positive sign.  

'How long until they get here?’ he asked, not really caring. As usual, his grumpy attitude caused John to fight back amusement, something he had always been completely terrible at.

'Five minutes, I think. They did text me, but you know what the traffic’s like.’

John leant against the prickly wall of the building. He was going to get stuck, with his deplorable cable knit jumper caught on the sharp bricks like Velcro. For some reason, Sherlock cared about that. He actually cared about the fate of that god damn woollen disaster.

(Oh, fuck).

'Do I have to help them? They hate me,’ Sherlock pouted, leaning back against the wall besides John.

In front of them, the surging current of city pedestrians stormed by, only occasionally slowing to get a closer look at the boys’ badges; the wretched badges were another crackpot idea courtesy of Irene and Mrs Hudson. The obnoxious plastic circles were inconveniently large, hanging off their chests at an angle that actually made the text indistinguishable, and they were gaudily shiny as well as being every single colour of the rainbow. Sherlock loathed them with a burning passion. Especially when, this morning, John struggled to put his on straight, and had asked Sherlock to do it for him.

'That’s never worried you before. Are you sure you’re alright?’

John was going to make an excellent doctor.

'I’m just a tad… anxious, that’s all.’

’ _Anxious_? Why?’

'It doesn’t matter.’

Sherlock turned his attention to the ocean of traffic, hoping that burying himself in the sound of rolling tyres and general humanity would prevent him from being forced (as if John would ever really force him to do anything except eat) to divulge any further comment on the matter. He changed the subject for good measure. John wanted to know more, obviously, but he would never miss a good opportunity to chastise his friend instead.

'Besides, arguing with Sally is always so _tedious_. I’m always nervous that talking with them will severely damage my mental health.’

This was true. Sally Donovan was joint fourth on Sherlock’s current list of least favourite people. The cutdown list read:

  1. Mycroft,
  2. Everyone who has ever flirted with John Hamish Watson (they’d all merged into one infuriating collection of noise, and therefore counted as one person),
  3. Sebastian Wilkes (that bastard),
  4. Donovan and Anderson.



(Victor Trevor was awaiting placement).

And yet, Sally always seemed to be around, all smug and practical and almost smart; as the only one with a car that didn’t have a siren on top, they’d become Speedy’s unofficial taxi driver and delivery person. In Sherlock’s opinion, they were better at that than police work. A siren would certainly speed things up, though.

'You know, there’s a way to get out of that one, Sherlock.’

And here we go.

'Stop fighting with everyone. Just, take a day off.’

'Now you’re just being absurd.’

 

* * *

 

8:50PM. Sherlock had been there almost nine miserable hours.

With the flood gates opening at nine, Irene had been reunited with her wicked partner in crime (or activism, since in so many places the lines between the two had been blurred) - the nearly tottering Martha Hudson. Both women clobbered around the scarcely lit club in their high heels, barking orders from lips equally coated in lipstick. The most peculiar parallel.

Under their strict orders, the room, which had already been vulgar enough, had been transformed into the most disgustingly appropriate venue for a party; the sparse wooden floor was a dark golden pool, splodges of which were illuminated by the warm bulbs that hung from the ceiling. Spotlights. They made it easier to hide in the dark crevices, but also easier to declare your presence to everyone and everything. Irene was good at that.

'Still don’t understand why we need the rainbows,’ John grumbled from the spindly chair he’d lodged himself into, supporting his head and elbows on the sticky table in front of him. Sherlock could have kissed him and his miserable attitude.

'Because we’re gay?’ Irene was still marching, peering into the deepest corner and eyeing up every detail. 'It’s pretty much our God given right. That and a reserved slot down in Hell.’

'Speak for yourself, on both those things.’ If they ever came to write a biography about John Hamish Watson, 'not gay and not going to hell’ would be an excellent description of his character.

John and Irene had a constant war going on; he wasn’t gay, technically, and preferred not to be generalised, whilst Irene, who was gay, just stuck that label on absolutely everything.

_'I’m bisexual, Irene,’ John would sigh, every single time. The debate always went in circles._

_'That’s pretty much gay, John. You want to fuck guys, and you are you are a guy. That’s gay.’_

_More sighing, which gradually turned into shouting. Irene and John would never last more than an hour without trying to rip each other’s throats out._

Each member of their oddly shaped group had been issued roles by their lipstick leaders. Greg and Molly, who, for the record, also weren’t gay, were busy in their respective places as barman and barmaid. Putting those two together serving drinks around fragile glass and intoxicated customers could only spell disaster, especially if the bickering that had already started was to continue; you didn’t have to be be Sherlock Holmes to know that it would. Meanwhile, Sally had joined the iffy looking bouncer the club had already provided, saying that if they could face gruesome murderers and Sherlock himself, they could sure as hell deal with hyperactive partygoers and the odd homophobe. They were blissfully absent from the bar.

John and Sherlock had slipped quietly into some chairs that were obscured by shadow, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the dynamic duo would forget they were still alive. Their hopes were shattered like one of Lestrade’s wine glasses.

(He’d broken five already).

'And, if you’re fit to argue,’ Irene carried on from her and John’s little vocabulary debate, 'you’re fit to work.’

'You said we would just have to set up,’ Sherlock protested, although there was little heat behind it. He knew when he was beaten.

'Tough shit. You two are in charge of our VIPs, so don’t fuck it up.’

'We have VIPs?’ Lestrade piped up, a disconnected voice from behind and below the bar.

'Where do you people think we get our money?’ Mrs Hudson came up behind the two hidden boys to clasp her hands down on their shoulders. 'We can’t live on coffee alone.’

'They’re basically just local rich businessmen who give us money for tax reasons. And a couple journalists. It’s cool to be an ally now, you know.’  

Released by red nails, a printed sheet of names floated it’s way down beneath Sherlock’s nose; he huffed, as he usually did, swiping up the list before John.

_SPEEDY’S PATRONS VIP_

_Buzzfeed LGBT journalists - Kitty Riley (Sherlock, don’t bother googling what Buzzfeed is, you’ll only hate it)_  
Janus cars   
The Black Hand Incorporated  
Trevor Trust - Victor + co?

'Sherlock dear?’ Mrs Hudson’s voice was the first to pierce through his veil of panic, purely because of her physical proximity. 'Is something the matter?’

'No. Nothing’s the matter. Why would something be the matter? Don’t be stupid.’ Sherlock’s voice was a string of rushed syllables, matching the rapid speed at which he pushed the paper away from him and away from his eyes.  

'You’re as white as a sheet,’ John said, turning his own gaze to the list in curiosity.

'I’m always pale.’

'Don’t be difficult. Do you know someone on this list or something?’

'No, I don’t,’ Sherlock lied. As long as Irene didn’t spill the beans, it could work. After all, it was partly true. It was painfully cliche, but Sherlock supposed that no, he didn’t _really_ know Victor Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything Irene says about bisexuality is isn't my opinion at all (I'm fucking panromantic so). And ironic, since in the show its kinda implied that she's bi...? Anyways I'm gonna clean this chapter and all the others up if I get the chance. If anyone could confirm whether you can or can't drink on testosterone that would be great bc the only resources I could find online were for body building. 
> 
> to clarify:   
> \- Sherlock = ace homoromantic   
> \- John = bi  
> \- Irene = gay  
> \- Lestrade = ftm trans / straight  
> \- Molly = demisexual / heteroromantic   
> \- Sally = agender (I wrote some of her actually in the club but it didn't work with the rest of it dammit)

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is 'delightedjohn' and my Twitter is @tealock!! I cut out a chunk of Sherlock's internal monologue (I know, there was MORE) bc it went of on a tangent. So the wedding case was a little more significant (and familar, eh?)


End file.
